POTOPt2, Pursuit & Design, Opposite of Serendipity
by kennahuliagulia
Summary: now all chapters can be found off of pt1 Part 2 of my Phantom of the Opera continuance--based on the movie, not the book. Christine has left Paris behind, along with Erik and now Raoul, but will Erik give up...? Can her mistakes really STAY in the past?


**A/N: **So I was searching stuff about Phantom on imdb, and I found that there might be a sequel based on a book set in Manhattan. I sort of..._borrowed _this location, but I can assure you, this bears hardly any resemblance to that particular plot-line. I did use some of the ideas it used, but I had actually thought of them before I read about it. So you may see some similarities...but I doubt there'll be more than a few. :)

As always, enjoy, and PLEASE review...it'll be appreciated so much!

P.S.--Don't forget to read Part 1 first!! Seriously...you might be a bit confused if you don't.

* * *

Erik lay in the mud, staring up at the bridge above him. Slowly, the melted snow, turning into little water droplets, fell down, plopping onto his forehead.

For the past few days, he had simply laid there. Occasionally he groaned—his entire body felt bruised, as if he would never heal. He knew he must have at least one broken bone.

His escape from the Paris Opera House had been a hasty and hazardous one. All of the police in practically the entity of Paris had been following him as he raced through the secret passageways he'd discovered so long ago. He had barely felt conscious as he wound his way through the halls of his dungeon. He hadn't even felt conscious—it had been an out-of-body experience, and one he hadn't been eager to live in the first place. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that, despite everything, She would not want him to go to prison. _Real _prison. But could it be worse than where he was now? Under a damp, loud Paris bridge, unaccompanied once more.

Each breath he took was ragged, forced. He had no will to survive. And yet, he felt it was his…_duty, _after all it had taken to keep him alive up to this point. So he kept on. Even when it felt like giving up would be the easiest thing in the world to do…which is probably would be, now. He wouldn't have believed it possible a few short months ago, but life was worse now than ever. He was not only lonely (as he'd always been), but now, he was in an unfamiliar, too-bright place, not nearly as hidden as his underground quarters at the Opera. And he didn't even have his music.

Oh, his music.

How could he survive without it?

_How could he survive without **her**_?

It was a question that did not even deserve an answer. For there wasn't one. He simply _couldn't. _

* * *

Days later, the Phantom remained in his original position. He was too weak to move, even slightly. He couldn't exactly tell, but he was pretty sure he'd been here for a week, exactly. 7 days. 7 days of torture. Utter agony. His mind was tormenting him, trying to increase his anguish by bringing him back to thoughts of her, day and night. Which he barely managed to acknowledge in the first place. The changing of light to dark, night to day, brought him nothing. No comfort in the fact time was passing. No relief that one more day was coming to an end. Nothing. He was numb, and he had found, recently, that he preferred _numbness _to pain entirely.

Closing his eyes silently, he did all he had the strength to do: whisper her name.

"Christine." He said, his voice breaking, and the single, crucial word ending in a broken sob that had such force it racked his body tremendously. More movement then he'd had in a week.

As he continued to wallow in his despair, a voice broke through his haze of grief & regret.

"Get up." It said.

Madame Giry. He'd recognize the voice anywhere. The only one, in his younger years, who had ever spoken to him directly, or even _known _of his presence at all. The only person who had **never **believed him to be only a 'rumor,' or a 'ghost story.' The only one who had _always _recognized his existence.

Madame Giry, his original savior, who'd rescued him from that horrible circus, and given him the oh-so-precious gift of life, hiding, and, most of all, the opportunity to possess the only thing that mattered-- then. Music.

And now, not much had changed. One more thing had been added to his unbearably short list of essentials, but that was all. However, that could not be passed off as a 'minor change.' Oh, no. It was the most important and influencial thing that had ever happened to him. The most _crucial _addition to his pitiful, amazing-that-he'd-managed-subsitence life, that had changed him more than anything else ever had, or ever would.

Now, his life not only contained music; it also included Her. His Christine.

* * *

Oh, how he'd gotten caught up in this. In her. Her beauty, her talent. She was _grateful _to him. No one had ever shown him such sentiment. The sensation she awarded him was the most invaluable thing in the world to him: love.

He had never loved. He had never _been _loved. She showed him both. She showed him how--she showed him he could--and she showed him he was. To love, to love, to be lovable. He'd never known of such things before she'd appeared in the Opera Populaire. His outlook had been completely altered once she first set foot in that building. The first note she sang had been the most transforming thing that had occured to him, _ever._

He rolled over, the pain of shifting his body excruciating.

"Go on, get up, I said," Madame Giry insisted in her thick accent.

He stayed where he was.

"This is important, dammit!" She snapped. "And I assure you, it is of great value to your trodden little heart."

Ah, Madame Giry. No sympathy for him anymore. He'd been expecting that, yet, still, it startled him quite a bit. She had never been vicious--at least, not to him. But he had made the biggest possible mistake. And for once, she wasn't going to let this error slip; she'd had enough, and he understood that. He was at fault and he did not deserve, nor did he anticipate, any empathy, pity, or compassion. The supply of those emotions had ran out for her by now, as he'd always known it would eventually.

His bones cracking as he did so, Erik stood. His mask (the one he'd grabbed as an afterthought during his getaway) stuck to his face with the moisture of a weeks-worth of lying down in the same, outdoor place.

"As I said." Madame Giry continued, straightening her posture. "Something you'll be glad to know."

"Yes." The Phantom croaked. He waited patiently for Madame to continue.

"Christine has left Raoul." She announced.

* * *

Erik felt his breath leave him, as well as all his pain. Just in time for a new wave of agony to sweep in; washing away the old, but, at the same time, replacing it with nothing more than a fresh supply of said agony. One he wasn't used to. It was easier to deal with when he had become accustomed to it. But now, it was just a whole new startling set of stabbing, ripping, and tearing (not to mention _searing_) sensations that would take just as long to settle in and become part of the normal routine.

He had expected his Christine to be in Raoul's good hands; hands that loved her, appreciated her, and would protect her when he himself could not. He had given consent, approval; he has _wished _them to marry, even, so that she may continue on in this life, the only one she would ever have, and find as much happiness as she could. He had never liked Raoul. Raoul had tried to replace him; Raoul had tried to kill him; Raoul had stolen his dear, precious Angel away. But at least, in the way he'd chosen it to be, and had thought it would be, he knew that she would be with someone who loved her--even if they could never possibly manage to love her quite as much as he had.

She had been the most amazing person he'd ever known—the only _decent _person, but so much more than that, she went so far _beyond _that. Not only was she decent; she was heaven-sent. She made him forget, for a while, his past, and his scars, and how damaged he really was. He was not a murderer around her. He was not the devil's child. He was an _angel. _

He'd so greatly regretted showing her the dark_er_ side of him. He'd wanted her to believe he could be good. He'd wanted her to see that he wasn't all bad. But he had to go and prove all her hopes and dreams wrong, had to expose himself as he really was: evil. He hated himself, more than anything, for that, for letting his past get the best of him, and dashing down her image of him as one of her life story's protagonists. He _hated _that he had gone and ruined all that they'd had, all that they **could've **had. His whole being seeped regret at this thought—that he'd be responsible for ruining "what might've been." That _he _was the one who had stopped it from going father and getting better. He lamented the fact that he'd ever snapped at her; that he'd ever been violent towards her; that he'd ever forced her into anything. God, he hadn't wanted it to be that way. He just wanted her to _choose him._ 

He just wanted her to see past who he appeared to be, and, probably, really was, even deep down. But most of all, he wanted her to see that there was MORE to him than wickedness; immorality; impiety, and malice. She brought out his softer side and he had so deeply wished it could stay out. But, like all positive, genuinely _good _things in his distressed and angst-filled life, it had to recede—disappear—_fade, _and much too quickly. God forbid he could turn things around. God forbid it would last just a little longer, so he could heal, become a better person. He wanted that. He truly did. But now he began to realize it was not possible. It was impractical to believe he could change. Even around her, his redeemer, his dark self tore out from its hiding place. He'd thrown her to the ground. He'd dragged her to his dungeon. He'd tried to kill her fiancée. He'd made her bare witness to the side of him that would, inevitably, send him to hell, although he'd so yearned to be good for once. He'd craved the ability to avoid hurting her. He'd never wanted that, he **swore! **But he could not get around it. It was too much a part of him. He was _that _person, and that person was inescapable. His thoughts were running away with him now. He needed to get to the point, inside his dim thoughts, and the point was this: he didn't want to be that way. He had wanted to change for _her. _But he couldn't. And that killed him.

He had only gotten carried away. He'd gotten too caught up in the fact that that _should've been him. _He should've been in Raoul's position, the other party in the secret engagement, the one she turned to when she was worried or afraid. But he'd instilled that fear. He'd caused that wory, that panic. So exactly what he'd wanted was exactly what could never be.

"But some _worse _news, then," Madame cleared her throat, changing her attitude in response to Erik's surprising reaction to the first bit of startling information. "She has left the country."

"What?" The Phantom's heart seized in his chest. It was astounding he should still have a heart, after it had been frozen over long ago, melted in front of her, and then been stolen by her leaving. His heart had been battered and stomped on so many times he could not help doubting it's presence in general. But he obviously still contained one. It was just 'out of order.' In reply to her absence, he was caused to have an absence of love in himself.

"She's gone, Erik." Giry sighed. "I'm sorry."

The Phantom paused, gathering his racing thoughts.

"Where?" He gasped, not having taken in a breath. "Where is she?" _Where is my love?_

"She's going to where she hopes she may join another Opera House, in America. New York. Manhattan, to be exact." Madame Giry cleared her throat once more. "I thought you should know."

The Phantom's eyes softened in gratitude towards Madame Giry's consideration for _him, _a…murderer, a formerly-ungrateful, and inhospitable, 'emotionally absent' and unreceptive shell of a man. She had saved him from that horrible circus, where he was beaten and nearly killed over and over, just to provide amusement to others. And now she was giving him back the only thing that had ever mattered more than his music. She was giving him back his life source, his meaning, the foundation for anything that was left in his miserable existence.

_Christine._

* * *

Christine held her breath as she boarded the ship. Raoul had gotten her onto the best, of course. He had high standards, for the both of them.

_But there's no "us" anymore. _She remembered. _Oh. _This thought scared her more than she thought it would—she'd imagined that perhaps she'd have gotten used to it. But obviously…not so much.

* * *

The whole trip over to America, she was queasy. She wasn't exactly seasick. It was just how forceful the awareness was that she was actually _leaving. _That comprehension made her shiver.

But, after such a long time on the water, she was actually quite glad—maybe even _gleeful_—to see land, even if it was completely new and unfamiliar and she did not know _anyone _here.

Luckily, a driver from another Opera House was there to pick her up. The one she'd written to about auditioning to join. They already seemed impressed with her history in Paris, and they even said the audition was just a "formality" to "ensure" her talent. In case anyone there had doubts. Which she assumed they must. _I mean, they're humans. _She thought, reasoning with herself. _They're bound to take precautions._

The driver took her, by carriage, towards the Opera. Christine had butterflies. She was giddy with excitement. She couldn't wait. She felt _animated. _For the first time in…ages. Ages and ages. It was almost as if she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this electrified, this alive.

But that was a lie. She knew that, and she couldn't live with the rebuttal her mind automatically realized and seized. She did know the last time she'd felt like this.

It had been the last time she had seen Him.

* * *

Meanwhile, Erik was once again below decks. This time, on a ship. Quite a large one, too. But he didn't mind the filthy smells or the uncomfortable lodgings. His mind was alight with thoughts of her, and where he was going, and _finding _her.

He used his time traveling across the Atlantic to formulate a plan, as to what he should actually do when he arrived in Manhattan. Wistfully, the Phantom sighed, the image of her face drifting to his mind, as it constantly did. He wouldn't push it from his mind if he could.

* * *

Christine stood on the stage—much smaller than the one in Paris—and, ignoring the pangs in her heart, sang with all her might. She tried not to think about what had happened the last time she was in an Opera. The last time she was on an Opera stage. The last song she'd sang…

She focused solely on the present. On the _future. _She swore to herself that she would let the past remain in the past, and she would get on with her life.

Nadia, the star of this Opera House—the Kendall Opera House--listened on in horror as Christine performed. The name of the House was not so glamorous (after all, it was named after the founder, who knew _nothing _whatsoever of music) but the performances **were. **Nadia had worked with the director, Liev, when they were both in Russia, doing opera and ballet there. Nadia performed and Liev coached her. She was now one of the best. Liev was the best tutor there was--Nadia was sure of it.

But Nadia was furious when she heard this new girl, Christine, get up and sing. How _dare _she come and try to take over? Well, never mind that. She had no doubt Christine could not compare to her own talent, if they were pitted against one another; when going head-to-head, Nadia _always _came out on top.

Despite that, Nadia went up to Christine as soon as she had finished her song.

Christine could not believe it. As she saw Nadia saunter up, she thought to herself, _Amazing. The opposite side of the globe, and things are exactly the same. _She could tell by Nadia's walk she would be just a big a diva as Carlotta, the former opera star back in Paris whose "throne" she had threatened with her young, "fresh talent," as people had put it. She just thought Carlotta did not want to share any of her spotlight, and _that _was why she was so uncomfortable around Christine. She assumed as much from Nadia.

"Who did you train vith?" Nadia asked, her Russian accent watered-down by years of singing English music.

Christine remained silent, unmoving.

"Vell?" Nadia got agitated, and her accent thickened.

Nadia placed her hands on her hips. "So it's going to be vat way." She stuck her chin up and sucked in her cheeks. "Vell. I vas just going to ask who you trained vith. In _Paris._" She said snidely, pronunciating it "pear-eez."

Christine's heart froze. It seized in her chest, posotively refusing to beat again.

"Answer me!" Nadia snapped, forgoing the attempt to stay composed and half-heartedly polite. "Who vas your tutor?"

Christine felt her eyes gloss with tears, but she sent them away as quickly as they had came.

"You wouldn't know him." Christine said softly. This seemed to satisfy Nadia's thirst for information. If he wasn't known by her, he wasn't famous. If he wasn't _famous, _he was not as good as Liev. She walked away, happy with her interrogating skills.

Christine took a deep, shuddering breath, and walked on, almost stumbling, but catching herself just in time.

"Christine, Christine!" Odessa, the manager, came over, beaming. "What a talent you are." She smiled brightly, and Christine smiled back as best she could. "Now. When can you begin?"

Now Christine _truly _smiled. "As soon as you need!" She said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

"Well, then!" Odessa continued to grin. "You'll be beginning rehearsals tonight." Christine nodded. Odessa clapped her hands, looking behind Christine, into the dark corners of the stage, and called, "Amon!" A pale little boy rushed up. "Show our newest star around, please, would you, dear." Odessa stated, not really a question, but rather a command. The boy nodded shyly. "Well, then." She smiled once more. "I'll leave you to it." And just like that, Odessa scurried off, grabbing a dancer by the arm as she near fell.

"Hello, miss," Amon said gently. "This way." And he walked off briskly, in the direction of a large archway. Christine struggled to follow him through the familiar bustling crowds of a cast and crew preparing for practice.

The boy could only be 10 years old. His fragile frame made him appear awkward and gawky.

His bones stuck out, showing through his skin, and Christine felt horrid looking at him.

He reminded her of another misfit, who also tended to lurk in the shadows.

"Amon," Christine began hesitantly. The boy abruptly turned back, looking frightened. Christine tried to be even softer. "What's your…place here?" She asked.

"I'm the errand boy." He said, his voice barely audible.

Christine nodded curtly, the only response she could think of, and followed him as he began to walk again, through the winding, bright-lit halls.

"This is the back entrance to the stage." He pointed to a large curtain, then switched directions. "This is the door to the outdoor deck." The door was large, wooden, and has music notes carved into it. It was gorgeous.

As they continued on, Christine ran her fingers over the shallow grooves in the dark cherry.

"This is the director's room," Amon announced, motioning to a door. "And this is Odessa's." He pointed to the door directly across from, but not facing, Liev's.

He led her down a bit more. "This is Nadia's quarters," He said, gesturing to a door with a large white star drawn on it. "She's the lead singer." Christine smiled and nodded down at the boy, and he flushed, turning away.

"This is for the dancers," He pointed again, and then turned to face a smaller door. "And this will be yours, until you get more…settled." He opened up this door, and showed her inside. She saw the driver of the carriage had already put her bags down on the floor. There was a large mirror and a desk-type piece of furniture, as well as a brass-framed bed and a large window looking out on Manhattan's bustling streets.

"Quite the view." Amon commented, and then briskly left in that way Christine was beginning to think just might be his signature.

* * *

Erik stood in the street, gazing up at the broken-down building.

"Perfect." He said under his breath.

The man he'd hired stood beside him. "This suits you, sir?" He asked nervously, and Erik nodded. "Okay…" The man glanced around. "I'll contact whoever owns it and tell them your offer."

"Thank you," Erik said with forced politeness, handing the dirty man some money for his work.

"No, no, thank _you, _sir," The man said cheerfully, and ran off towards the building.

_He's much too merry for my taste. _Erik thought to himself silently.

But that was not what he was here for. And nothing would distract him from his _true _intentions. Absolutely nothing.

**A/N: **One more chapter closer to a REUNION! I swear, it's coming up, like, in part 3. PROMISE. I just need a tad more feedback to know what I can do better...and I have to do a LOT more editing...but...soon. I swear.


End file.
